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„No.“
Mordecai is willing to endure a significant number of circumstances. He tolerates Viktor as his assigned partner, mostly because his lying ways about symmetry are indemnified by his strength and skill. He tolerates Mitzi May mocking him throughout any party he has to attend as their bodyguard, with her unprofitable attempts at involving him in their standard of a social life. He tolerates the mayhem of viscera and gore their work usually leaves behind, ruining not only one, but several of his precious items of clothing. There are a lot of things he would change around here, but in the end, he supposes if he were to call the shots, he wouldn’t be the one standing behind Atlas May in any group photo they take, unwillingly glaring straight into the camera. His right hand man, some whisper.
There’s no need to discuss his ability to withstand generally uncomfortable conditions. It’s clearly there, and it’s clearly superior to anybody else.
This, however? No. No way.
„Vhat naow?,“ Viktor Vasko grumbles as he throws his jacket around his shoulders, most likely already aware of what’s causing Mordecai’s disgusted expression. They’ve been working together long enough for him to at least have a distinct suspicion, given that by definition, they almost live together at this point. Still, some part of Mordecai is aghast at the fact that he has to explain it in detail. Here he is, standing in the yard of Viktor’s house, wearing the usual suit and tie, as shiny and spotless as ever, and the man has the nerve to ask?
„Naow,“ Mordecai hisses, vaguely pointing at Viktor’s entire attire, from his jacket, to his shirt, to those ludicrous suspenders that bend across his chest and do absolutely nothing useful, to his pants. „You explain yourself, mister. Why are your clothes still covered in -- in -- excess?“
And excess is probably the best word to describe it. It’s not that he’s outright covered in blood, but there’s blurry spots and stains everywhere, almost brown in colour. And the smell. If Mordecai would curse, now would be the time to, but instead he pinches his nose shut, stepping closer without noticing that approaching the object of his attention is the very reason he has to suppress retching in the first place. It reeks, as if Viktor simply shoved every single piece into the washing machine the way it was the second he shot a man in the chest from up close, and Mordecai can’t say he’s sure that’s not exactly what happened.
„Eh.“ At least he has the decency to look mildly perturbed. If it’s because of Mordecai’s fretting or because he’s not fond of the circumstances himself, Mordecai will never know. „Miss Bapka is sick. Could not vash my things yesterday, so I do it myself.“
„Yes,“ is spit out in response. „That much is obvious. Do you have no shame?“
There’s a shrug, and it only serves to increase Mordecai’s rage. „Is not that bad. You make too much noise over nothing.“
Mordecai would like to differ. While the encounters he’s had with the police weren’t provoked by wearing blood-stained clothing, walking around the way Viktor is planning to would simply attract too much attention for it to be good, considering their job. It’s a conclusion he assumes reachable with the lowest standard of logic, but Viktor’s staring at him as if he’s some kind of child throwing a hissy fit. Anybody else wouldn’t be able to see that hint of mockery, given that his expression is as blank as one could be, if you ignore the scowling eyebrows, but Mordecai does, and it doesn’t exactly improve his mood. „This isn’t funny, Viktor. Do you want to end up dead in a ditch somewhere? Would you even mind the -- In fact, I’m sure you’d love the company of rats nibbling away on your filthy clothes, you’re obviously brothers in arms.“
And it doesn’t end there, because Viktor actually grins at him then, in his preposterous not-actually-grinning way, and Mordecai simply shoves a fist into the fabric of his jacket, dragging him back inside. „Take it off. All of it. I’m cleaning --“
He’s lucky he’s not looking at Viktor as he’s interrupted with a rumbled „Oh?“, because the indication there entirely went past him, in his desire to complete the current objective. If it’s even possible at this point in time, he scowls even more, and tries to duck away from the embarassment, all while keeping a firm grip on his partner, walking without pause. „I’m cleaning,“ he says again, and this time it’s so aggressive even Viktor learns to shut up.
...
Nobody considered they’d be late for their assignment when Mordecai started washing Viktor’s clothes properly this time, and do you even have an iron? Don’t ruin anything for just a second, I’m asking your landlady. Honestly, from Viktor’s point of view, it was kind of amusing. Mordecai’s not exactly quiet about his love for cleanliness, (and some would say it’s more of an obsession than affection), but seeing him stand above a washing mashine, pouring boiling water into it as if he’s done this a million times before -- It’s strangely domestic. And usually, considered the job of a woman. Which doesn’t stop Mordecai from ironing Viktor’s shirt for the very first time since the Slovak bought it.
If he even bought it. They are criminals, after all.
After all that struggle, however, Mordecai still isn’t satisfied. With his arms crossed, he, in fact, doesn’t even look at his partner, determined to keep his gaze directed towards the passing landscapes as they’re driving to their target destination. Maybe he finally realized what just happened over the span of the last few hours. It seems that way, because when he finally speaks up, it almost sounds like he’s pouting.
„I don’t know why I went through all this trouble.“
Viktor doesn’t know, either. Nobody knows. Maybe that’s why it’s so funny.
„You should just wear a suit.“
And the picture that immediately shows up in his mind is ridiculous. Viktor, attending one of those parties, dressed in a shirt that actually fits him, replacing those suspenders Mordecai really wants to cut through every now and then, just for the sake of it. He’d look good in a suit, no doubt. Everybody does. But there’s something about that image that feels so abnormal that Mordecai almost regrets stating it outloud.
He glances at Viktor, averts his gaze just as quickly, as if he'd been caught doing something forbidden. It's almost comical. Mordecai misses the hint of a smile Viktor allows himself -- always noticing, never speaking -- with his eyes on the road.
„Maybe I vill.“